


Aposematism

by Eithe



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, because she can and will kill you for being rude, like some kind of lightning-flinging Baba Yaga in training, so I had to write a fic, this quest was really hilarious on my mostly-gray Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eithe/pseuds/Eithe
Summary: Zash's apprentice is disinclined to suffer impositions, fools, or insults. Balmorra, therefore, tries her patience - which was not very extensive to begin with.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Aposematism

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea what to title this so I'm naming it for the phenomenon of poisonous animals using bright colors or other means to loudly advertise that they're not worth bothering because it will go badly for you. Because honestly, that's my Inquisitor in a nutshell.

The human sitting in the cell looks much less worried than his situation warrants and far less disheveled than she would have expected; he’s been captured by the Republic, disarmed, imprisoned. He’s Sith; surely he’s aware of the hideous weakness he exposes by having permitted this indignity in the first place, let alone suffering it to continue. If he could have gotten himself out, presumably he’d have done it already.

Which means it wasn’t just one piece of bad luck, a humiliating misfortune, but a more intrinsic weakness.

She wonders if he’ll jump when surprised, like a startled child.

“Hiran Bessiker, I presume,” she says, slipping out of the shadows while Khem hangs back to guard the door. She does so hate being interrupted. It's been very nice, having Khem around to anticipate things like that. 

Sadly, the man doesn’t jump. Instead he rises, laconic and unconcerned;

“The old man sent you, didn’t he? He must have gotten my distress signal.”

Interesting; he didn’t see her arrive, didn’t sense her, but he still isn’t at all discomposed. Keeping up appearances, at least.

But then he keeps talking;

“I guess he’s good for something, after all. He did keep talking about some Sith he was working with, but he failed to mention you were a filthy alien.”

Rude. Weak. You can be one or the other, in the Empire, but not usually both - at least, not for very long. She raises a brow, conscious of her mouth twisting into a sneer but not needing to trouble herself to conceal it. If he were any kind of threat he wouldn’t be in this position, in need of her assistance. If he had any kind of sense, he would have kept his mouth shut until he was again at liberty.

“And he didn’t mention you were a fool, but then, some parents _do_ insist on viewing their progeny in the best possible light.”

“Watch your tongue, scum,” he snaps. She wonders where this sudden surge of offended pride is coming from; live capture is usually the reward of cowards. Perhaps his ego is so bruised he can’t swallow further indignities, but really, how difficult is it to accept a rescue with a modicum of discretion and grace? Or failing that, with a civil (or merely still) tongue? Impossible, apparently, for this entitled brat. She just looks at him, for a long moment, wondering if he’ll realize his error and try to retract the words. But no:

“Get me out of here!” he demands, after a few unblinking moments.

“You know,” she muses, tilting her head to make a show of thinking on it, “that was the original plan - your father was clever enough to know you’d need help. So perhaps he doesn’t think so highly of you after all, hm? He had to resort to sending a ‘filthy alien’ to rescue his useless--”

Hiran Bessiker slams a fist into the forcefield, his fury flaring in the Force, and she laughs.

“That’s cute. Are you used to intimidating people with your anger? To all of the other acolytes scurrying away in terror? It won’t work well for you outside of Korriban. You’re used to a very small pond, little fish, and the galaxy is a wide, dark ocean.”

“Let me out,” he snarls. “My master’s powerful. I’m sure you’ve heard of him; Lord Esdras. He won’t be happy if I don’t come back alive.”

A Lord. Not a Darth. So Zash outranks Esdras. As Zash’s apprentice, she outranks this fool. But he didn’t bother to wonder who he was insulting, presumably because she is an alien and therefore beneath contempt. She hums neutrally in response, tilts one hand back and forth; so-so, a middling effort.

“Better. Certainly more threatening than your little temper tantrum - but your father told me that you’re only recently graduated from the Academy, so I’m afraid you’ll have to try again. Apprentices are disposable commodities, and there are so very many fresh Acolytes available to choose from…”

“My father has some kind of hold over you or you wouldn’t be here, so quit wasting my time and let me out!”

“And better still! Yes, the Major does have something I want. So I’ll be happy to let you out--once you apologize.”

“What.”

“Ears still ringing from getting trounced by a bunch of force-blind grunts? I’ll let you out when you’ve apologized for insulting me.”

“I will do no such thing. You’re a jumped-up piece of gutter trash unworthy to be Sith.”

“And you’re a weakling stuck in a cell who has deluded himself into believing a mediocre pedigree can compensate for abject stupidity and an appalling lack of manners. Now, you can apologize for being a tit, or I can kill you and tell your father that I’m dreadfully sorry but it just couldn’t be helped.”

“Hah!” The bark of laughter is familiar, derisive, dismissive. “I’m not afraid of you! I’m injured, but I’m still Sith.”

“And so am I,” she says, honey-sweet and poisonous. “And yet you were captured by a passel of insurgents armed with nothing more fearsome than blasters, and I made it all the way here to…” she taps a finger against her lips. “Hm. You know, I’ve forgotten why I came. You’ve been so dreadfully impolite that I’m afraid it quite outraged my tender, girlish sensibilities. If only there were something to jog my memory.”

“Let me out, you gibbering lunatic.”

“I simply _cannot_ recall why we’re here. I never did think well when I was hungry, and I’m afraid I’ve been so busy today that I entirely skipped lunch. Khem, when did you last eat?”

_“I have not fed properly since Dromund Kaas, little Sith, as well you know.”_

“The Dark Temple was just chock full of delectable little morsels, wasn’t it? What do you think, is he a meal or just a snack?” She gestures to the captive idiot with a little flourish, not that Khem hasn't been eyeing him consideringly the whole time. “Maybe one of those fancy little amuse-bouche things, given the pedigree, but I can’t imagine he’s strong enough to be very filling.”

Bessiker barks, “What? That’s…”

He finally sounds a tiny bit alarmed. She revises her opinion downwards again; he should have properly noticed Khem sooner, and should have guessed what he was, and should have been less flagrantly impolite.

“Kindly refrain from doubling down on your rudeness; I’ve killed all the guards and there’s no water delivery to these cells. You’ll be dead in a few days if I don’t remember why I’m here. ‘That’ has a name--Khem--and yes, he is a Dashade, if you’re fool enough to find anything more frightening than an annoyed Sith who can just… leave you here.”

“My father will send someone else to let me out.”

“Oh, he well may, but you’re presuming any of them could get past me if I decide to guard the entrance. There’s plenty of supplies laid in to keep little old me going for, oh, weeks and weeks! I imagine you’ll be ready to apologize in exchange for a glass of water by this time tomorrow.”

“If you’re going to try to kill me, get it over with. I’m perfectly willing to step over your corpse on my way to collect my prize.”

“I’m not here to kill you. And I don’t want your little toy, either; you and your master are welcome to whatever bit of antiquated rubbish you’re rooting around on this midden of a world for. But you have unfortunately been quite imprudent and - more importantly - impolite.”

He just glares, this time. He can be taught! She perches on the table and picks up his lightsaber - it must be his, the resonance is too similar for it to belong to anyone else.

“Don’t touch that!”

Ah, but so very easy to provoke right back into bad habits.

“You make a lot of demands,” she muses, turning the hilt over in her hands, “for someone with no power whatsoever to enforce them.”

“It’s mine! I made it!”

“Yes, it sings like you.” She begins pulling it apart, carefully untwisting the screws with the Force, and he howls like a skinned nexu. She winces theatrically, and amends, “Well, not like that, certainly. It sings more prettily.”

He screams, hurls invective, and she carries right on dismantling all his hard work until he finally yells, raw and hoarse and actually sincere for once,

“ _Stop_!”

She does. She settles the pieces (eight, now) onto the table and holds the kyber crystal between her forefinger and thumb, assessing it.

“An interesting choice of cut. Third reformation style. Antique itself, or are you a traditionalist?”

“Both. It belonged to my great grandfather.”

“Ah, yes, legacy. I’m familiar.”

“Hah.”

“I am holding a piece of your inheritance, a literal family jewel, and you’re locked in a cell. I’d advise you not to annoy me further at present, Hiran.”

“I-- you--” She waits. “Don’t,” he chokes out. It sounds like it hurts him. How delightful.

“Pride is useful,” she muses, tossing the crystal up and watching the way he flinches before she snatches it out of the air again, arresting its fall. “But arrogance is idiocy. You know you’re not strong, not by Sith standards. Nothing like unassailable. You’re too young to be entrenched politically, too young for deep wells of power or a great breadth of knowledge.”

“And you’re, what, older than you look?” Snark. Stupid, but moderately entertaining.

She smiles.

“I am not afraid of you, and you never thought to ask why. Do you wonder, yet, Hiran?”

He looks at her, actually looks, this time, instead of seeing an alien and immediately dismissing her as nothing. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing, because he is ignorant. This is the first time he has looked, because he is a fool. The first would be fixable. The second…

“Oh, apprentice.” She sighs, tries her best to channel Zash’s tone of disappointment. “You still have no idea who I am. Here’s an interesting rumor, since it seems you’ve been away from Drommund Kas for some time. Did you know that someone killed Darth Skotia? Right there in the Sanctum! Of course, people are mostly looking at Darth Zash, who had the most to gain by it, but she wasn’t even in the city when it happened. And naturally, her apprentice couldn’t possibly have done it. Fresh off Korriban - and just a filthy alien.”

She emphasizes the last two words carefully, because he is apparently very stupid, and sometimes one has to lay things on a bit thick to make sure they penetrate a very thick skull.

He looks frightened, finally, almost an hour too late.

“I’m not older than I look, no. But that’s the wrong question, isn’t it, Hiran? And you’re only just now realizing. What you should have asked yourself straight away is, ‘why is she not afraid?’ We could have saved so much time! Now. Are you going to apologize?”

“You can’t treat me like this!” He doesn't sound quite so sure, now.

“I demonstrably can.” She peers at him through the crystal, enjoying the kaleidoscope effect pulling him into little red pieces.

But he finds a bit more of that pride he's been clinging to, squares his shoulders and bites out, deadly serious;

“I’m going to kill you." She can feel the murderous intent pouring off him in waves.

“Oh,” she sighs, mock-mournful, “that isn’t an apology at all. That sounded very like a threat, in fact.” With the hand not holding his lightsaber's crystal, she flings lightning at the control console controlling the forcefield and smiles, not rising from her seat on the table.

"Khem, what is it you do to Force-users, again?”


End file.
